Cookies
by Zathara001
Summary: This is a one-off set in the Brothers-verse. It takes place sometime after "United."
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything to do with Leverage or The Librarians. Dean Devlin, John Rogers, and others do. All rights in this work are hereby given to them.

This is a one-off set in the Brothers-verse. It takes place sometime after "United."

The secret to perfect Christmas cookies - or, really, _any_ cookies - was to rotate the baking sheets in the oven halfway through the cooking time. Eliot Spencer had learned that from Ms. Bigelow in Home Economics back in high school, and it had proven true ever since.

So Eliot opened the oven to the spicy scent of gingerbread and with mitted hands swapped the baking sheet on the top rack with the one on the bottom rack. He closed the oven door gently and re-set the kitchen timer for four minutes, then turned back to the island where the remainder of the dough and two cool baking sheets waited for him.

He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and got back to work.

There was something almost meditative about scooping up bits of dough, rolling them into balls, and placing them on the baking sheets - not quite as meditative as the steady chopping of vegetables for a cassoulet or ratatouille, but still Eliot could relax when he baked, and he was grateful for every moment of relaxation that came his way.

He was just placing the tenth cookie on the first baking sheet when he heard the door to his apartment open. Eliot glanced at the clock and grinned.

"A little early, aren'tcha, Mia? Cookies aren't done yet."

He looked up at the sound of footsteps, frowning when he realized there was more than one set - and too heavy to be Lamia's.

 _Three_. He didn't have time for more than that realization before three men emerged from the entry hall.

 _Huey, Dewey, Louie_ , he dubbed them, noting in the same instant that none of them were carrying guns.

"I don't remember inviting you guys for dinner," Eliot drawled. "You must have the wrong apartment."

"Nah," the one in front - _Huey_ \- said. "We're in the right place, Dr. Sinclair."

The name told him three things. First, these three hadn't bothered to check the rental agreement for the apartment, nor the ownership records of the building.

Second, he'd only used his Adam Sinclair identity recently in connection with the Library and the House of Benwick, so whatever they wanted was a result of that, not his work with Leverage, Inc. or - however remotely - the Bridgeport Brewpub.

Third, the attempt to intimidate him by using his name marked them as amateurs. Eliot hated dealing with amateurs.

"I don't recall meeting you before," Eliot said.

"You hurt us," Huey declared. "All of us."

"How could I do that if I've never met you before?" Eliot kept his tone reasonable. If he had to fight these three, his dinner schedule would be wrecked.

"You killed Dulaque," Huey said. "We can't let that stand."

"I was invited to take over his position. He didn't want to give it up."

"Pretty words for a pretty boy," Dewey sneered. Huey held up a hand.

"We know she put you up to it," Huey said. "But we can't let it stand."

"I get that," Eliot said. "And I get you gotta do what you feel is right. But if you burn my cookies, I'm gonna be pissed."

All three of the others laughed.

Eliot chuckled with them, glanced at the oven timer. One minute, fifteen seconds before the cookies would be ready. He rolled the latex gloves down and off one hand, then the other.

"Let's do this," he said. One step and a handhold later, he'd vaulted over the corner of his kitchen island, coming into a ready stance with his back to the living room.

No sense angling the fight toward the dining table. He hated cleaning up broken china almost as much as he hated cleaning up broken crystal.

His move startled them, but they recovered quickly, Dewey and Louie moving to flank him on either side, while Huey closed in from the front.

Eliot grinned, raised one hand in a bring-it gesture.

One minute.

They closed, in an attack surprisingly coordinated for amateurs. Then again, Eliot mused, they'd been coordinated from the beginning, save for Dewey's lone insult. Maybe they were Dulaque's enforcers.

Eliot blocked Huey's lunge, lashed a foot toward Louie.

Second-tier enforcers, Eliot corrected himself. Lamia, of course, had been Dulaque's top lieutenant.

Fifty-five seconds.

Dewey closed in from Eliot's left, and Eliot took one step back, using Dewey's momentum to slam him into Louie.

Huey looked surprised, but recovered quickly. "Nice moves for an academic."

"You didn't think it was just luck that I killed Dulaque, did you?" Eliot let humor color his tone.

Forty-five seconds.

The trio paused, glanced at each other, re-settled.

Definitely a team, Eliot decided. And one that worked together often. Not well, but often.

They rushed again, together, and for long moments, Eliot was lost in a deadly danced. He'd danced it before, too many times and in too many variations to count - punch, kick, block, strike, kick, dodge - a whirling frenzy of movement impossible to plan. He could only act and react.

Thinking would come later while he iced bruised muscles and joints, and with it regret, but for now, Eliot simply _moved_.

And then there was only Huey left standing before him, looking much more disheveled than he had when this began, his left eye already swollen almost shut, blood dripping from his nose.

"Who the hell _are_ you?" Huey demanded.

Eliot grinned, and it felt feral, like something too long leashed was being let free. "Me? I'm Eliot Spencer."

Huey's expression had just registered shocked recognition when Eliot's fist slammed home and Huey crumpled to the floor.

The oven timer dinged.

For the record, I don't believe Eliot Spencer would be caught unawares in his own home. But some friends gave me the prompt, and I ran with it.


	2. Chapter 2

WARNING: One naughty word at the end of the chapter.

In the months since she'd first thought that Dulaque, formerly Master of the Serpent Brotherhood, had to die for the good of the world, Lamia had gone through more emotions than she thought she'd had in her entire life before that time.

First had come the emotions similar to the stages of grief: denying that Dulaque was on a self-destructive path, then anger that she couldn't convince him to change that path, depression that if he weren't going to change his path she had no choice but to do it herself, and finally not so much acceptance as resignation.

The same emotions had repeated, if in milder form, when Eliot Spencer actually did kill Dulaque. Lamia had known that would happen - had, in fact, arranged for it to happen - but that only dulled her reactions somewhat.

And that wasn't even counting the emotions Eliot Spencer stirred in her - emotions she hadn't been willing or able to face in the aftermath of Dulaque's death and her own disillusionment with his methods and his goals.

Now, six months later, Lamia felt she was - finally - getting back to her center, to the person she had been before Dulaque, before magic. Now, she was finally ready to face the world on its - and her - own terms.

So when, during one of their semi-regular calls about how Chamblin House and the Benwick Collection were faring, Eliot had casually invited her for dinner in the week leading up to Christmas, Lamia had surprised both of them by agreeing.

Now she stepped off the elevator onto the top floor of a mid-century apartment building in Portland, Oregon, and turned to her left.

Of course Eliot had a corner apartment on the top floor, Lamia thought. Probably roof access, too, to make for easier getaways in case bad company came calling.

At least she could be reasonably certain he didn't consider her bad company. Not anymore.

Eliot answered the door almost before she finished knocking, his hair in some disarray despite being pulled back into a ponytail, and she found herself returning his smile.

"Hey, Mia." He stepped back to let her into his apartment. "C'mon in. Cookies are cooling and dinner's almost ready."

Lamia crossed into the apartment, unable to keep from looking around, hoping for a glimpse into the depths of this man she had wrongly assumed was just a hired thug. She didn't know what she might have expected, but this comfortable apartment wasn't it.

To her left was a dining area - a table for four currently set for two, and beyond that the kitchen. To her right was the living room, whose main feature seemed to be a large window overlooking the neighborhood. No television, she noted - or if there were, it was concealed. A guitar on a stand next to a stool at the window sat somewhat apart from a conversation grouping of a sofa and two chairs.

Very neat, she noted. In fact, the only thing out of place was…

"Why is there a rug piled at the back of the sofa?"

"Let's save the heavy talk for after we eat," Eliot suggested. "There's a rack for your coat beside the door."

"Thank you." Of course he hadn't offered to take her coat, Lamia mused, and almost before she finished the thought, she was arguing with herself. _You would've refused if he'd offered._

And that was probably true, but the gesture would've been nice. Lamia slipped her coat off, hung it on the rack, taking an extra moment to smooth any wrinkles while she got her thoughts under control.

 _He's a colleague, not a friend, and certainly not anything more,_ she told herself. _And he's treating you like one. You shouldn't expect anything more. You shouldn't_ want _anything more._

With that reminder firmly in place, Lamia turned back toward the dining area and, beyond that, the kitchen.

While she'd hung her coat, Eliot had poured glasses of wine and put them on the island where plates of four different kinds of cookies rested.

Lamia crossed to the island, sat at it, and took a sip of the wine. A red, rich with fruity tannins and a hint of plum on the finish. Just as with any other wine he'd selected, it was excellent, almost seductive on her palate.

"How's London?" he asked, and it was surprising how easily they fell into light conversation. Then again, she thought, maybe it wasn't surprising.

This was Eliot Spencer, after all, and everything she'd heard about him only bore out her personal experiences with the man - just when you thought you had him figured out, he upended your conclusions with new, unexpected data.

So she followed his conversational lead, telling him about how London was in winter, from the bitterly cold temperatures that hovered around freezing to the precipitation that was more sleet than actual rain. Then she described the Christmas lights that turned Oxford Street, Bond Street, and the Strand into wonderlands of light and music.

In turn, he told her about Christmases when he was a child, and then about the time he'd had to impersonate a mall Santa to stop a robbery at a federal depository. By the time they'd finished the pork chops and risotto he'd made, Lamia felt more relaxed than she had in a long time.

Naturally, that was when Eliot chose to strike.

"Got a question for you, Mia," he said.

"What?"

He stood and crossed to the rug piled haphazardly against the back of his sofa, grabbed one corner and pulled it back to reveal three men, bound with zip-ties and gagged with duct tape, who seemed to be just regaining consciousness.

"How many more of these dumbfucks am I gonna have to deal with?"


	3. Chapter 3

Eliot smiled tightly at Huey, whose angry expression faded into resignation in the handful of seconds it took him to orient himself once more. Behind him, Mia watched quietly from where she sat at the dining table.

When Dewey and Louie were stirring, Eliot heaved all three of them in turn to sitting positions and squatted opposite them.

"Let's start on a positive note," he said. "Y'didn't burn my cookies, so I'm not pissed."

Judging by what he could see of their expressions, Dewey and Louie were still ready to kill him, but Huey only nodded an acknowledgment. Why weren't -?

"Oh, right." Eliot chuckled softly. "You were unconscious when I introduced myself. I'm Eliot Spencer."

Dewey started, and Louie paled.

He wasn't proud of the things he'd done that earned him his reputation - but having the reputation sometimes allowed him not to do any more of those things. If he played it right, this could be one of those times.

Huey was trying to work his jaw beneath the duct tape that covered his mouth. Eliot leaned forward and ripped the tape free.

"Why are we still alive?"

"Got no reason to kill you," Eliot said. "Like I said, I get this is a professional issue for you. Professionals can disagree without it being deadly."

Huey's eyes narrowed. "You made it deadly when you killed Dulaque."

"Better him alone than thousands more - but I expect you'll disagree about that, so let's get to it."

Huey's eyes narrowed, and all three seemed to shrink back.

"Not like that," Eliot said.

"Then like what?"

"That depends. Let's talk."

#

Ten minutes later, Lamia watched as Eliot sent the three former members of the Serpent Brotherhood on their way with a firm understanding of what would befall them should they, or any of their comrades, tried anything like that again - and a takeout container full of cookies for each one.

"Odd combination," she murmured as Eliot locked the door behind them. "Death threats and desserts."

"We'll see if it works." Eliot sounded philosophical. "Tryin' to follow the Roman model of not leaving an enemy with a grudge against you - or if you do, make damn sure they're not strong enough to do anything about it."

"So you didn't cripple them, and you gave them cookies." Lamia considered that. It wasn't the dumbest idea she'd ever heard. "I hope it works."

"Rather not kill 'em," Eliot said. "Not if I don't have to. Even if they come back, this time I know they know what they're getting' into."

"You're a very unusual cowboy."

Even as she said it, Lamia knew it was only half-true. Eliot Spencer was definitely unusual, but he was no cowboy - not the simple ranch hand she'd had in mind when she first applied the label to Jacob, anyway.

"I've been told." Eliot gave her a grin before turning to finish clearing away the dinner dishes. Automatically, Lamia moved to help him.

If Eliot were a cowboy, she thought, he was one out of myth and legend, more a gunslinger with a code. She studied him covertly - though given his skills, he was probably aware of her scrutiny anyway - trying to picture him in a ten-gallon hat and chaps, but the image wouldn't come.

Not a simple ranch hand, for sure.

"Sorry for the floor show between dinner and dessert, Mia."

Eliot's voice brought Lamia back to the moment, to the man working beside her rather than the myth in her head.

She liked the man better.

But -

"Why do you call me Mia?"

"Because I finally remembered what a lamia is, and calling you a child-eating demon is rude."

That was oddly sweet, and a depth of understanding and courtesy she hadn't expected.

 _You should have_.

Lamia shook that thought aside, offered Eliot a grin. "But before Hera made her a monster, she was a queen."

"Fair enough." Eliot wiped the counters where they'd been working, turned to face her fully. "But my first introduction to magic was learning about lamiae and other demons to help Jake kill an empusa. That's not a memory I want to associate with you."

It wasn't the smoothest compliment she'd ever received, Lamia thought, but it was one of the most sincere, and that made her smile.

"If you don't like it, I'll stop," he added.

"No," Lamia said almost reflexively. "Please don't. I like it."

His mouth quirked up in a half-grin that made her swallow past a suddenly dry throat. "Good. Hate to think what it meant if you liked being called a monster."

That surprised her, and she laughed quietly. "One more step on the way to not falling all the way down."

"You've been pretty sure-footed so far," he said. "If you'll take the cookies to the table, I'll be there in a minute."

Lamia took two plates of cookies, each piled high with different types of sweets, and turned to the table. She wanted to run, to flee this man who had started as a thug in her estimation and become so much more, but she kept her steps smooth and controlled.

If only she could do the same to her emotions.

Lamia took her time arranging the plates and re-folding their napkins, buying time to collect herself before facing Eliot again.

She'd loved Dulaque, at least until she'd realized that he didn't - couldn't - love her as anything other than a tool to achieve his goals, and she'd loved him suddenly, like lightning. More than once she'd wondered whether he might have used some kind of magic to make her love him, but even if he had, that feeling had long vanished, to be replaced with a dull loathing that she had thought no one else could ever pierce.

That was the thing about Eliot Spencer, though - he didn't pierce that dullness so much as burrow through and under it simply by being himself. The question was whether he'd meant to do so or not.

"Here you go." His voice brought her back to the moment, and she looked up to see him offering her a glass filled with a milky liquid.

"What's this?" Lamia took the glass from him and sipped cautiously, even though everything he'd made tonight had been delicious.

"Adult milk for the cookies," Eliot said. "A variation on a blind Russian. I left out the Kahlua so it'd go better with the cookies."

Lamia couldn't help grinning at him over the rim of her glass. "Are you trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me?"

Eliot smiled back. "Thinking it'd take more than one drink to get you drunk."

He was keeping it light, she realized, and in the next heartbeat understood that he wouldn't pressure her if all she wanted was the simple flirtation they'd enjoyed the last few months.

Even a month ago, that might have been all she wanted. But now ….

"What if I want you to take advantage of me?"

"Then it wouldn't be takin' advantage, would it?"

"I suppose not." Deliberately, Lamia set her glass on the table and took the two steps that brought her so close to Eliot that only a whisper of air separated them.

"You're sure?"

"Very." There was no need to explain now how she'd come to be ready, not when he was smiling more honestly than he had before.

Then his mouth was caressing hers, and she decided that discussion could wait until later.

Much, _much_ later.


End file.
